


By His Dirty Hands We Know Him

by Anarfea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Real Events, Kidnapping, M/M, Mycroft Whump, Terrorism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-02 17:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15801381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: Mycroft and Greg are getting serious, and Greg is starting to ask serious questions about the difficult and sometimes unethical decisions Mycroft has made. Mycroft breaks things off before Greg can find out the darkest secret in his past--which is about to catch up to him.





	1. The Moral Politician

**Author's Note:**

  * For [n_a](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_a/gifts).



> This story is a work of fiction, but it alludes to real life events, in particular the Shankill Road Bombing, a terrorist attack carried out by the IRA on 23 October 1993 in Belfast. In 2002, the IRA stole classified papers from the Royal Ulster Constabulary which suggested that the attack was plotted by a British agent known as “AA,” and that MI5 had knowledge of the attack before it was carried out and either failed to act in time to prevent it or deliberately allowed the attack to happen, even that they may have instructed “AA” to tamper with the timer on the explosive device in order to increase casualties and thereby reduce public support for the IRA and weaken those in the IRA who opposed a ceasefire. 
> 
> I understand that the Shankill Road Bombing was a real tragedy with real victims, and hope that no one will find my writing about this real historical event offensive. My intent is to explore the thought process which may go on inside the heads of those who make terrible, politically motivated decisions, and the resulting psychological aftermath. I also wished to explore the moral dilemmas raised by BBC Sherlock, particularly the Flight of the Dead, and its relationship to the Coventry Conundrum, the alleged historical case where Winston Churchill allowed a German attack to be carried out on Coventry in order to avoid revealing that the Allies had cracked Enigma, the German encryption machine. It is my belief that if any MI5 personnel had knowledge of the Shankill Road Bombing in advance, and even more so if they deliberately allowed the attack to happen or did anything to increase the number of casualties, that all the officials involved in the decision making process should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Here is the moral politician: it is by his dirty hands that we know him. If he were a moral man and nothing else, his hands would not be dirty; if he were a politician and nothing else, he would pretend that they were clean.”--Michael Walzer, Political Action: The Problem of Dirty Hands

January, 2016

 

“I’m glad we’ve finally been able to carve enough time out of our schedules to have a proper meal instead of--”

“Rutting together on the sofa after eating two bites of takeaway?” asked Greg.

Mycroft’s cheeks pinked as he glanced around the restaurant. “Keep your voice down.”

“Sorry.” He wasn’t, though. The place was full, and the overlapping sounds of clinking flatware and multiple conversations drowned their voices. And it was worth peeving Mycroft a little, to see him blush. “I’m happy, too.”

“Are you?”

“Of course.” He frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

A black-clad waitress approached and stood beside the table. “Will you gentlemen be having appetisers?”

“Er, yes. I’ll have the risotto,” said Greg.

“The scallops,” said Mycroft. “And glasses of wine to compliment both. Whatever your sommelier recommends.”

“Of course,” agreed the waitress. “I’ll have that out shortly.” She made her way back towards the kitchen.

“Have you closed the Peterson case?” asked Mycroft.

“Yes, but I’ve got to go to court at some point. God, I hate testifying.”

“It does seem like it would be tedious.”

“It is, sometimes. But with this one I just… don’t want to see the photographs again.”

“Ah.”

“It’s… murder I can understand. Sometimes I think I couldn’t do my job if I didn’t. I mean… I would never. But there are times I’ve just thought, ‘Fuck, I could kill that guy. Especially guys like Peterson.’”

“You don’t understand cruelty.”

“Right. Probably because I really can’t think of any circumstances that justify.... There are times when it’s absolutely justifiable to kill. Just last week, we had a case. Domestic abuse. A woman stabbed her partner with the knife he was trying to kill her with. Clear cut case of self-defense.”

“You comprehend a wrong action if, under certain circumstances, it might have been the right action. But an action you regard as wrong under all circumstances is incomprehensible.”

“I guess, yeah.”

“And there are no circumstances you can imagine which would justify torture.”

Greg leaned back slowly. “Oh. You mean….”

Mycroft’s jaw tightened.

“Look.” Greg chewed his lip. “I think we were talking about different things. I was thinking about Peterson. That guy tortured the woman he murdered for fun. And that, no, that can’t ever be justified. I get that you’re talking about like, interrogating terrorists because there’s an imminent bomb threat or whatever. And that’s….”

Mycroft watched him, wearing a perfect poker face. Greg knew he needed to tread carefully.

“I still don’t think that’s right.”

“Neither do I.”

“Oh.” Greg hoped his relief wasn’t as visible as it felt.

“Torture is never right. As a society, we must condemn it.”

Greg nodded.

“But sometimes… sometimes it’s necessary to do things that are wrong.”

Greg’s stomach turned over. “So you really…. Have you ever?”

“You know there are things I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

“Right.”

Mycroft sat in silence for a few moments. At last he said, “This upsets you.”

“Yeah.” Greg ran his fingers through his hair. “I mean, knowing you might’ve… and the fact you won’t talk about it.”

“Can’t.”

Greg rolled his eyes.

“Gregory--”

It had been months since Mycroft had called him that.

“You’ve known the truth about my vocation for some time. Understood my responsibilities.”

“Yes, but--”

Mycroft watched, waited, as Greg tried to find the words.

“God, I sound so fucking naive. I thought we didn’t do that anymore. I thought--I mean if nothing else, I thought people agreed that torture doesn’t even work.”

“That is the general consensus among experts now, yes.”

“Then why would… are you saying that this is something you did a long time ago?”

Mycroft pressed his eyelids together in an exasperated slow blink.

“Right, you _won’t_ say.”

“I--”

“Don’t even pretend you can’t. I’m apparently allowed to know that you literally let Sherlock get away with murder, and that you keep your sister locked up in a top secret prison, but you can’t tell me something that would let me decide if we have fundamentally different values.”

“Sherlock told you about the former. Lady Smallwood decided to involve you in the latter.”

“So you wouldn’t have told me those things either if you’d had it your way, is that what you’re saying?”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m saying both those stories were not mine to share because they involved other people, and you were informed because those people consented to you knowing what you were told.”

“You’re sure it’s not just because you’re afraid I won’t agree with what you did?”

“You’ve made your point clear enough that I already know your opinion.”

“I guess we never need to have conversations at all, then. Since you already know what I’m going to say.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Maybe stop telling me what I think and know, Mycroft.”

“I did not intend to--I only meant that I’m not discussing this topic because I’m not at liberty and not because I’m afraid of what you would think.”

“Well, maybe you should be.”

“Pardon?”

“I think you’re taking it for granted. My willingness to overlook things that violate my personal morals for you. It was one thing when it was about keeping Sherlock out of trouble and keeping your secrets but….”

“I have never taken your… willingness to overlook my flaws for granted, Greg. I know that some of what I asked of you cannot have been easy. And I promise you I would not have done so if it hadn’t also been necessary.”

“According to you.”

“Yes, according to me. Who else’s judgment am I supposed to exercise? Yours?”

“I know you can’t always talk to me about your work. I don’t expect…. But it’s just the way you act, like if you think something needs to be done, then it’s done. Because you’re the authority and your word is final. You never consider that you might be wrong. And sometimes, Mycroft--like that whole fiasco with your sister--you’re bloody wrong!”

Mycroft flinched. “You think I don’t know that? You think I didn’t spend the hours locked in my sister’s cell alongside the corpse of a man who killed himself in front of me contemplating the magnitude of my failure?”

“I’m sorry, Mycroft. I didn’t mean--”

“No, you did. You think I haven’t learned from my mistakes. You think I consider myself infallible.”

“I think you keep things to yourself when you might be better off getting advice from other people.”

“You think that I’ve done all sorts of terrible things I won’t tell you about because I don’t want you to think badly of me.”

“I wish you would give me a chance.”

“To do what? Pass judgment?”

“No. Just to…. I don’t know. I just wish you would let me in.”

“Into what? The dark inner sanctums of my soul?”

“I didn’t call it that.”

“You’re simultaneously demanding that I share all the secrets you imagine I’m keeping from you and warning me that I should fear the consequences if you disapprove of what I’ve done. I’m forced to conclude that’s what you want--for me to lay myself bare so you can verify your suspicions and feel justified in ending our relationship.”

“That isn’t--I’ve got no ulterior motives here. I’m just trying to tell you how I feel.”

“You may not be conscious of them, but your intent is clear.”

“You’re telling me how I feel, again.”

“I’m telling you what I see. And I know a trap when I see it.”

“No. No, you don’t. Because I’m not trying to trap you. Maybe that’s what you’re used to. You’re surrounded by politicians and spies. And so you see traps everywhere. Even when there aren’t any.”

Mycroft leaned back and reached into his jacket pocket. He extracted and opened his wallet, removed two crisp fifty pound notes, and set them on the table.

“Wait--Mycroft, what are you doing?”

“For the cheque.”

“Jesus. You don’t have to do this.”

Mycroft folded his wallet and tucked it back into his jacket. “Anthea will stop by tomorrow evening with whatever personal effects you’ve left in my home.”

“You can’t….”

“I assure you, Gregory, I can.”

“I mean…. Of course you _can_ , it just floors me that you _would_. Six months we’ve been together. And now we have one disagreement, and you’re ready to call it quits?”

“This is more than a disagreement. You don’t know me as well as you would like and you will like me less the more you get to know me.”

“Why don’t you let me get to know more of you and decide if I like you or not?”

“Because I see no reason to put off the inevitable. To continue at this point would only waste both of our time.”

“And what about the time we’ve had together? Was that a waste?”

Mycroft dropped his gaze briefly, then met Greg’s eyes. “No. The past six months were…. It was a pleasure, getting to know you.”

“Can’t you see what you’re doing? Throwing it all away like it meant nothing.”

“It meant--you mean--a great deal to me. But I cannot allow myself to succumb to the sunk cost fallacy. It’s irrational to dump resources into a failing venture just because you’ve heavily invested.”

Greg leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “So that’s it. This was all a ‘venture’ for you, and now you’re cutting your losses.”

Mycroft’s lip twitched. “Yes.”

“I’d say that’s why they call you the Iceman, but the thing is--I know that isn’t real. It’s just a front you put up, and so is this. You’re afraid. You’re afraid I’ll leave you, so you’re trying to do it first.”

“I’m not afraid. I’m certain.”

“You just can’t stop telling me what I’m going to do, can you?”

“I can’t. It infuriates you. Which is one of the reasons we won’t ever work. I know you don’t agree now, but you’ll come to realize it in time.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft pushed back his chair and stood, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his suit with his fingertips. “I wish you all the best.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

“Goodbye, Greg.” Mycroft turned and strode through the restaurant, passing their waitress as she made her way to their table, carrying their appetizers on a tray.

Greg didn’t expect Mycroft to turn around, but he’d hoped for a reaction of some kind. Mycroft didn’t spare her as much as a glance. He walked on, spine straight, head high. It made his stomach clench to think that the last sight of him might be of his retreating back.

The waitress arrived at their table, set Greg’s risotto in front of him and Mycroft’s scallops in front of his empty chair. She glanced at the notes in the middle of the table, forehead wrinkling. “Is something the matter?”

Greg chewed his lip. “My… dining companion had an emergency.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?

“Could you bring some takeaway boxes?”

“We can package your meals in the kitchen for you.” She collected the plates, replaced them on her tray, turned, and made her way back to the kitchen.

Greg stared at the stark white tablecloth. Part of him wanted to just walk out without waiting for the waitress to return. He wasn’t hungry anymore. And he didn’t even like scallops. But Mycroft might still be outside, and the last thing Greg wanted was to look like he was chasing after him. Besides, his mother had taught him better than to waste food. He would sit and wait for the waitress to return with the boxes.

He closed his eyes. They burned and prickled. He wasn’t going to cry now, either, but he knew it would happen at some point, probably when he was choking down rubbery scallops alone on his couch tomorrow.

_Why, Mycroft?_

He knew why. Mycroft was afraid. Afraid of rejection, and judgement, and intimacy. Greg had known that for a while now. But he’d thought they were making progress. That Mycroft was letting his guard down. But Greg had pressed some kind of sore spot in Mycroft’s psyche tonight, and Mycroft had slammed all his barriers down on Greg’s fingers. He wouldn’t open himself again. He was too proud, too stubborn, for that.

Greg scrubbed at his hairline before letting his face sink into his hands. Perhaps Mycroft had been right. He didn’t know how to let anyone in, and Greg wasn’t willing to be on the outside forever. He’d known, going into it, that it wouldn’t be easy, that Mycroft was a hard man to get to know and a harder man to love--and yes, he had fallen in love with Mycroft. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened. It hadn’t taken long, but he hadn’t said the words yet because it had been too soon. And now it was too late. Mycroft was gone.

 

* * *

 

A bitter breeze lifted the tails of Mycroft’s coat as he left the restaurant. His unplanned, early exit had left him without a car. He briefly considered hailing a cab in case Greg attempted to follow him, then thought better of it. Greg had seemed resigned when Mycroft had left the table. He peeled off his gloves and sent a quick text to Anthea, asking her to send a car, then stood on the kerb to wait. His fingers twitched against the black wool of his coat. He was desperate for a cigarette.

There was a kiosk down the street. Mycroft made his way over and bought a pack of Silk Cuts and a disposable lighter. He’d thrown all of his nice lighters away after he and Greg had promised one another they’d quit.

Mycroft cracked the seal and slid out a single cigarette. Suddenly, he understood why Sherlock occasionally stuffed an entire packet in his mouth. He put the urge and the packet aside, and lit up, sucking the blessed nicotine deep into his lungs as he pulled his gloves back on.

He regretted having left Greg in a restaurant. It wasn't like him to conduct private business in public. To make a scene. But the moment the conversation had drifted towards ethics, he’d been uneasy. He knew that Greg’s morals were less flexible than Mycroft’s own, that he didn’t approve of many things Mycroft had done, but he’d been lulled into complacency by the months they’d spent enjoying one another’s company. Greg was right; Mycroft had begun to take Greg’s goodwill for granted, when he should have been on guard, knowing it could and would be withdrawn at any moment. It had never made any sense, Greg’s interest in him. It was Sherlock who had instigated it, by asking Greg to ‘look after him.’ His brother had shown an undue amount of concern for him since Sherrinford, which was... good, in its own way. It was preferable to the unwarranted animosity that had existed between them, at least. But even though he’d known Greg had only come to him at Sherlock’s behest, it had been good to see a kind face when he emerged from the ordeal that had been Lady Smallwood’s debriefing.

“I don’t know about you,” Greg had said, “but I’m too wired to sleep at this point. Breakfast?”

Mycroft had been dead on his feet, but he’d found himself saying yes. And then he’d invited Greg to lunch at the club to reciprocate. And then Greg had shown up at his office with takeaway. Before long they were meeting twice a week, for lunch or coffee. Mycroft hadn’t even thought to consider any of these meetings dates--most of the time they talked about Greg’s cases or Sherlock.

Then Greg had mentioned he had tickets to see _Antigone_ at the West End--they’d been comped to the Chief Superintendent, but she couldn’t attend, so she’d given them to Greg, who had invited Mycroft. Mycroft had assumed he was the only person in Greg’s acquaintance who he had thought might be interested. That Greg had worn his good court suit because it was his most appropriate garment for the venue. That he’d asked Mycroft for drinks after because he had off the next day. It was only when had Greg escorted Mycroft to his car, when he’d lingered at the kerb, eyes darting between Mycroft’s mouth and and his eyes and the car door, that Mycroft had realized that Greg had been debating whether or not to try to kiss him.

He’d stood, transfixed, watching as Greg had shifted his weight forward and reached for him, placed his hand between Mycroft’s shoulder blades and a chaste kiss to Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft had returned the pressure, reassuring Greg the contact was welcomed, waiting to see if Greg would open his mouth.

He hadn’t. He’d slowly pulled away, then smiled, a full, lopsided thing which made him look young. “Thanks,” he’d said. “I had a good time.”

“So did I.”

“I guess I’ll see you Thursday?”

“You can see me in the morning, if you come to mine tonight.”

Greg’s eyes had widened, but he’d recovered quickly. “If I see you in the morning, I’ll fix you breakfast.”

“Fridge is empty,” Mycroft had admitted.

“Then I guess we’ll have to spend the morning in bed.”

They had.

And now they wouldn’t anymore. Mycroft had assumed that Greg would be the one to end it, that he would tire of Mycroft and get frustrated with his inability to open himself to Greg emotionally. In a way, he supposed that Greg actually had, it just hadn’t been enough for him to break things off. Perhaps he was still in denial. Perhaps he’d been afraid Mycroft would be crushed by it.

He wouldn’t be. It would be hard, certainly, to go back to life without Greg, now that he’d grown accustomed to having him around. But all hearts were broken, and time moved indifferently on. Mycroft’s choice was to move with it or be left behind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft caught a glimpse of the black Jag rounding the corner and coming to a stop in front of the restaurant. He put out his cigarette in the kiosk ashtray and made his way towards it. At least it had come quickly. A sudden gust of wind sent a shiver down the back of his neck. Mycroft rearranged his scarf inside his collar as he made his way towards the car. It would be good to be warm again. He intended to take a hot shower as soon as he was home.

The moment his fingers touched the handle, he knew something was wrong. He let go as though it had burned and stepped backwards onto the kerb, watching in horror as the door opened from the inside. He turned to flee only to freeze as an electric crackle tore the air around him and two points of white heat sunk in between his shoulder blades like fangs. Every muscle in his back spasmed, pain rippling up and down his spine. He crumpled forward, knees, then chest and finally his face striking the pavement. Taser. He’d been Tased. It wouldn’t kill him. His limbs convulsed at his sides in synchrony with the waves of pain surging through him, then went limp as the current was cut. Behind him, boots thudded onto the tarmac and then the pavement on either side of him, and strong hands grasped his forearms and elbows, jerking him to his knees. Mycroft struggled, but his limbs were liquid. The men dragged him across the pavement and shoved him through the open car door. He fell heavily onto the back seat, turning his head to see the men slide in beside him. The car was already moving before the door slammed shut.


	2. A Guilty Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When he ordered the prisoner tortured, he commited a moral crime and he accepted a moral burden. Now he is a guilty man. His willingness to acknowledge and bear (and perhaps repent and do penance for) his guilt is evidence, and it is the only evidence he can offer us, both that he is not too good for politics and that he is good enough.”--Michael Walzer, Political Action: The Problem of Dirty Hands

The hood wasn’t completely light-proof, but he couldn’t see through it. It was tied around his neck with twine, tight enough to choke if he inhaled too deeply. Zip ties bound his hands in front of him. He slowed his breathing. There was nothing to be gained by panicking. Mycroft assessed what he could of his surroundings. By the cool damp of the cement which cut right through his suit into his left side, he was lying on a basement floor. How he’d arrived there, he didn’t know. He remembered being Tased, pulled into the car, a sharp pain in his antecubital, then nothing. Now, a hood. A basement. The light filtering through the cloth was yellow. Incandescent. He was alone. And then a door squeaked on its hinges, and he wasn’t.

Mycroft turned his head in the direction of the sound. Heavy boots stepped towards him, then curved behind him. The snick of a spring loaded knife opening made his blood pump faster. A hand grabbed his wrist, held him in place as the blade sawed through the zip ties. Instinctively, he balled his fists, blood rushing back to his too-tight fingertips. A boot kicked at his legs.

“On your feet.” Male. Mid-thirties. Irish brogue.

Mycroft struggled to comply. His legs were rubbery and would not support his weight. A second kick made him topple forward onto his tingling hands, which gave out, dropping him to his forearms. It took him several moments and proddings before he managed to scramble up to all fours.

“Hands up.”

He pushed himself onto his knees and raised his arms. A firm palm pressed him forward; he stumbled until he found a wall. Brick. The mortar crumbled when he brushed it with his fingernails.

“Strip.”

Mycroft froze, spine straightening.

“I’ll not be repeating myself.”

Mycroft struggled out of his jacket, fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat. An eager hand snatched his pocket watch. He stripped out of his shirt, then paused, fingers fluttering for a few seconds at the waistband of his trousers. Then he took a deep breath, sucking at the fabric of the hood, which made him cough as he unfastened his belt. He dropped his trousers, standing awkwardly in a wool puddle.

“All the way. Shoes too.”

Mycroft struggled into a squat, bracing himself against the wall (the cool brick abraded his back) as he found and untied his shoelaces. He pulled off his shoes, socks and garters, leaving them in a pile, then kicked off his trousers. Afterwards, he stood slowly, biting his lip as he peeled his Y-fronts down. For the first time, he was grateful for the hood, glad it concealed his flushed face.

“Turn ‘round.”

Blood flooded his face and ears. Mycroft turned slowly, touching the wall with his hands.

The boot kicked at his ankles, and he spread his arms and legs, as if for a pat down, except he was already naked. He swallowed a ball of fear.

“Step back. Keep your hands against the wall.”

And then he knew. Mycroft took two steps back and rose up on his toes, leaned forward and braced himself against the wall, resting his weight on his fingertips.

The dark chuckle behind him made him shiver. “So you do know what’s coming.”

The five techniques. Hooding. Wall standing. Sleep deprivation. Food and water deprivation. White noise. Technically, the European Court of Human Rights had ruled that while ‘inhuman and degrading,’ they did not constitute torture. Mycroft knew better. Now. The lines hadn’t been so clear at the height of The Troubles, when at least once a month there was a terrorist attack of some significance, and civilian support for the IRA was high. It had seemed the most expedient way to gather essential intelligence, then.

“This is what your lot did to our brothers.”

Mycroft almost dared to hope this was simple retribution. A group of New IRA operatives salivating at the chance to subject a member of British intelligence to the infamous techniques practiced on the Hooded Men. Mycroft was a stand-in for persons long since deceased or retired--those atrocities had taken place in 1971, and whatever Greg believed, Mycroft had not participated in those or subsequent ‘deep interrogations’--with the notable exception of James Moriarty’s. That hadn’t been about obtaining information as much as taking revenge against the man who had dared to attack his brother. If this was the same--punishment for whatever real or imagined sins his kind had perpetrated against this man’s brothers-in-arms, Mycroft could bear it.

But he feared this went darker, deeper. ‘The roads we walk have demons beneath,’ he had warned Sherlock. Mycroft had demons of his own, ones he’d never been able to bury as deeply as Sherlock had, but which he’d banished to the furthest recesses of his mind. If they were to rise up and meet him, now….

He mustn’t think of that. That was exactly what his captors wanted, for him to stew in fear and imagine scenarios potentially far worse than what he actually faced. Mycroft would not break himself for them. He would analyze the situation, avail himself of any opportunity to escape, and if he found none, he would harden himself and endure and wait.

They had taken him off a public street. They had stolen a vehicle from MI5’s motorpool. They were leaving a trail and someone--Sherlock, Lady Smallwood--would follow it and find him. All he had to do was survive until then.

 

* * *

 

October, 1993

Mycroft wove his way through the familiar bowels of Vauxhall Cross, following the maze of tunnels that led to Lady Smallwood’s office. It had been six months since he’d been home, and it had felt good to shed his affected brogue and put on a suit again.

He knocked on the reinforced door, surprised when it was opened by Sir Edwin. Mycroft had been necessarily vague during the phone call he’d placed from Belfast, but it was clear Lady Smallwood had understood this meeting was serious enough to warrant his presence. Good. It would save time.

Lady Smallwood herself was seated at the round table in the front of the office instead of behind her desk. Sir Edwin took a seat beside her and motioned for Mycroft to sit opposite.

“You said you had a report you felt it was necessary to make in person,” said Lady Smallwood.

Mycroft nodded. “I have new information from Agent AA.”

“And?”

“There’s a fish shop called Frizzell’s on Shankill Road. The rooms above it are used regularly by the UDA-UFF. They meet every Saturday at lunchtime.”

“Decidedly unwise,” mused Sir Edwin, “that their movements are so predictable.”

“Quite,” said Mycroft. “This has not escaped the notice of AA’s battalion. They intend to strike the fish shop Saturday next. Two operatives will disguise themselves as delivery men and bring an explosive device into the shop. The device is rigged to explode upwards and will have a short delay timer--providing enough time for the two men who will carry the device to get themselves to safety and evacuate the shop, but inadequate time for the UDA members upstairs to escape.”

“Thank you,” said Lady Smallwood. “This is valuable information.”

“Shall I find a discreet way to leak this to our assets in the UDA?” asked Mycroft.

Lady Smallwood pursed her lips, drumming her manicured nails on the table. “No. I think you should advise AA to let the attack proceed as planned.”

Mycroft knew he hadn’t miss-heard, but still found himself asking for clarification. “Pardon?”

“The Republicans have entirely too much public support. _Sinn Féin_ is almost respectable. If we allow the attack to proceed, we reveal them for the terrorists they are. Public opinion will turn against them, which will weaken the position of those in the IRA who oppose peace. We’ll have better odds of bringing them to the negotiating table for a cease fire.”

Mycroft blinked. This was not the response he had expected. And yet, Lady Smallwood’s logic was sound. How many lives might be saved if the attack dissolved support for the IRA? If the end of the conflict were hastened?

His palms began to sweat. What he was about to propose was extreme, but it was also the best way to achieve Lady Smallwood’s stated objective. “If that’s what you want, why not ask AA to tamper with the timer on the explosive device?”

Lady Smallwood raised her eyebrows.

“Their intention is to evacuate civilians from the shop, for exactly the reasons you’ve advised; they don’t want to be blamed for any soft casualties. If the timer on the device were shortened--”

“At Saturday lunchtime--” interjected Sir Edwin.

“There would be significant civilian casualties. If you want public opinion to turn against the IRA, Lady Smallwood, that would certainly go a long way towards it.”

“Holmes, that’s brilliant,” said Sir Edwin. “Ruthless. I understand entirely why your colleagues gave you the codename Antarctica.”

Lady Smallwood’s lips thinned into a tight line. “You’re quite right, of course, Mycroft. Much as it pains me to authorize this.”

Mycroft’s heart pounded in his chest.

“It has to be done. Return to Belfast. Inform agent AA he is to shorten the timer on the device.”

He nodded, pressing his damp palms to his trousers to stop them from shaking.

Some of his anxiety must have shown on his face, because Sir Edwin turned towards him, scrutinizing. “You’re doing the right thing. We’re at war. Lives will be lost, if not at Shankill Road, then in Trafalgar Square.”

Lady Smallwood sat up straighter in her chair. “I disagree with Sir Edwin. We’re not doing the right thing. We’re doing the wrong thing. A terrible thing. If we do this thing, we are all of us guilty of murder.”

Sir Edwin opened his mouth, but she silenced him with a raised hand.

“I’ve authorized murder because it would be reckless and selfish for us to value our own moral purity more than the possibility of saving countless human lives. True leadership requires sacrifice, including of one’s clean hands. You will never sleep easy after--nor should you. But your actions may bring about peace.”

Mycroft nodded, swallowing around tightness in his throat.

“You’ve been invaluable in the field, Mycroft. Your insights have helped us navigate difficult situations more times than I can count. But I know that it’s not your natural milieu, and that the Belfast assignment in particular has been difficult for you. See this through, and I’ll see you home.”

Sir Edwin nodded in agreement. “A mind like yours is wasted on fieldwork. We need you planning operations, not executing them.”

“I…. thank you. Both of you. I appreciate that you’ve noticed my efforts.”

“We have,” said Lady Smallwood. “And they will not go unrewarded.”

A return to London. An office at Vauxhall, even if it was a windowless closet. Being able to keep an eye on Sherlock, who was in danger of failing out of Harrow, from what Mummy had told him. Being able to be himself again instead of Shane O’Riley. Everything he’d spent the last two years working for within his reach, if he could prove he had the fortitude to carry out the action he’d suggested. It would be hypocritical not to, wouldn’t it? One day he would be the one making the hard decisions, giving the terrible orders. How could he command others to do things he hadn’t done or wouldn’t do himself? Lady Smallwood was right. Those in the position he wanted couldn’t have clean hands. He would dirty his so others wouldn’t have to.

 

* * *

 

The worst was the noise. His arms were knots of fire, fingers and toes numb and cold-white with pain; his trapezius muscles screamed and spasmed while sweat dripped down his forehead beneath the hood, but the _noise_. The interminable hissing noise which pierced his eardrums until he wanted to smash his skull on the wall. It vibrated his whole body, forced his brainwaves to conform to its pattern, swept him into its undertow.

A hand settled at the small of his back.

His whole body jerked in response, sending a wave of spasms up the muscles on either side of his spine.

“This stops whenever you want,” said the voice. “All you need to do is tell me a name.”

Mycroft shook his head, trying to shake out the noise.

“You were twenty-three when MI5 killed Bootsie and eight innocent civilians, then blamed us for their crimes. It can’t have been your decision.”

‘Bootsie.’ His tormentor empathized with the bomber who’d died in the explosion. Mycroft swayed against the wall, involuntarily pushing back into the hand. Touch. It grounded him. He’d had nothing touching him but the wall for….? He’d started out counting, tracking the minutes, hours, but to his shame had completely lost all sense of time.

_‘Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?’ Serbia. Sherlock. Sherlock, how did you endure this? How do I endure this?_

He would give a pound of flesh for an hour of sleep.

Mycroft licked his lips. His tongue was fur. His eyes were sand. He’d had no water, nothing to eat; his limbs shook with exhaustion and hypoglycemia and only the stiffness of his muscles held his arms up, above his head, supporting his weight against the wall. He tried to summon spittle to his mouth to speak. His lips split as he parted them.

“You underestimate me,” he rattled. “It was my decision. Mine alone.”

The hand snatched his hood and slammed his head into the wall. Mycroft staggered, losing his balance, and fell to the side, landing heavily on his right hand. White shards of pain drove behind his eyes. Before he could so much as breathe, a kick caught him in his ribs. Then another, and another.

_Sherlock, curled into a ball on the floor. “Let him do what he wants. He’s entitled.”_

Mycroft lay meekly, arms up to protect his face, elbows catching the worst of the blows.

“Remember the Shankill Butchers?” asked the voice. “They didn’t use any kind of handbook. They cut off limbs with bonesaws. Strung their victims up by their wrists and carved them up with knives. Witnesses heard them screaming, begging for death.”

_These are idle threats. They’re trying to terrify you. They wouldn’t, they won’t dare…._

“Gang of sadistic serial killers butchering Catholics, and you lot knew and did nothing.”

“No--No that is not…. That is not on my head. I accept responsibility for….”

_Michael Morrison. Evelyn Baird. Their little daughter, Michelle. Seven years old. They’d been buying her crabsticks._

“For the civilians,” he choked. “At Frizzel’s.”

“Fuck you. You did _not_ give that order, and you’ll tell me who fucking did.”

“It was me. My idea. My order. Mine.”

A boot stomped on his hand right hand. Metacarpals crunched. His ring cut deep into flesh. The cold numbness of his fingers burst into flame, and his own screams briefly drowned out the hissing noise.

“A name, damn you, a name!”

“Antarctica!” he cried, vision white.

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t know. It’s a code name. You’re right, I was only twenty-three. I never knew who gave the order. Please. Please….” he didn’t even know what he was asking for. To be left on the floor, to curl around his broken hand. To sleep. To die.

No. He mustn’t die. Sherlock needed him.

 

* * *

 

Nothing remained of Frizzell’s chippy but brick and wood spilling into the street. The disemboweled viscera of the building poured out from the blast radius like so much fish guts on a shop floor.

Mycroft had expected pandemonium. This was not that. Civilians dug with bare hands through the rubble, stopping only to make room for emergency services. Mycroft bent down and joined the others clawing through scattered bricks, pausing when he heard a moan. Beneath the layers was a young woman, black hair and red blood smeared across her forehead.

“Over here!” he called, voice horse.

A paramedic jogged over and stooped to take the woman’s pulse.

Mycroft stepped back, light headed.

Ambulances queued along the street. A backhoe worked to clear some of the rubble, stirring dust into the air. Emergency services carried stretcher after stretcher out of the shop. First they carried the bloody and screaming, and then the silent, covered in white sheets. He spun away from a group of policeman and paramedics carrying a sheet-draped figure no more than four feet long, and choked on vomit.

 _What have I done?_ He heaved more bricks aside with raw fingers. _What have I done?_ He raised his hand as he uncovered another person, this one a man, who reached for Mycroft’s fingers as he lifted the bricks off his arm. _What have I done?_

 

* * *

 

“Who is Antartica?” The man snatched the hood from Mycroft’s head, bending down to shout into his face.

Mycroft blinked at the sudden brightness, licked blood from his split lips. “They call him the Iceman. He’s… ruthless. He was willing to authorize anything if it meant undermining the IRA.”

“You ever meet him?”

“No.” Mycroft struggled to his hands and knees. “We only spoke on the phone once, when he authorized Shankill. Otherwise he sent encoded messages via a drop. I reported back the same way. I don’t know anything else, I swear.”

“What about Love?”

Mycroft cracked a bloody smile. “What’s love got to do with it?”

The steel toe of a boot sent lightning bolts of pain through his fractured ribs. “Don’t be glib. Codename Love. What do you know about him?”

 _Him_. They didn’t know Love was Lady Smallwood. There was hope yet.

“One of Antarctica’s subordinates. He handled the Belfast desk, but had no authority to authorize operations, only--” he coughed, jagged pain emanating from his broken ribs. “Only execute.”

“Did he execute Shankill?”

“No. That was me. My first operation. They promised me--” he coughed. “They promised I could go home.”

“And you killed for it. Do you want to go home now?”

“Yes.” His voice cracked. “Yes, please, more than anything.”

“And what will you do for it?”

“I’ve already told you everything. Everything I know. Everything I have. Please.”

“We’ll see. We have to check what you’ve told us against what we know. But I think you’re starting to come clean.”

“I am. I am, I swear it.”

His captor nodded. “I think you’ve earned a reward.”

He didn’t dare let himself hope. Even if they actually offered him anything, it would only be to manipulate him.

The man walked to a canvas backpack at the far wall and extracted a plastic water bottle. He threw it at Mycroft. It struck his shoulder with a dull thwack-thud and rolled onto the floor.

Mycroft scrambled for it, realizing too late that the broken fingers of his right hand weren’t up to the task. He yelped in pain as they struggled to close around the bottle. He took it into his left hand, set it upright, and bit the cap, holding the bottle between his teeth and twisting the butt against the floor. The plastic ring tore his lip, but the cap came free. His mouth filled with blood and water. Mycroft grasped the bottle with his palms and pulled himself up on his knees, drinking, trying hard not to let the precious liquid dribble down his chin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guard watching, the parts of his mouth uncovered by his ski mask twisting into a bemused smile.

Mycroft ignored it. He could endure a little humiliation for this. The water could mean the difference between life and death. He drank it all. It shocked his shrunken stomach, which cramped in protest, but he didn’t dare set the bottle down for fear it would be taken away.

“Thank you,” he said when he was finished.

His captor sniffed. “You have one hour.”

“Until what?”

“‘Til I come back.” He picked up the backpack and slung it over one shoulder. Then he opened the squeaky door. Mycroft glimpsed a flight of stairs before it swung closed, and he was alone again.

He leaned against the wall, clutching his empty bottle with his good hand. The broken one he cradled against his chest. His fingers throbbed, especially the ring finger, where the metal had bitten deep. Mycroft grasped the ring with his left hand, twisting, grunting from the pain. If he didn’t pull it free now, he could lose the finger later. He yanked hard, crying out as he wrenched it over the first knuckle, then the fingertip. He threw it to the floor, where it clinked and bounced before wobbling until it stilled.

Mycroft slumped, letting out a huff of air in relief. He should try to sleep. His adrenaline was up so high it was unlikely he would be able to fall asleep in an hour, if indeed that promise were kept. But he forced himself to lie down all the same. The cold floor leached what little warmth remained in his limbs, but lying supine provided a welcome respite to his screaming muscles. He closed his eyes. Greg and he had watched a television program where they’d done some sort of pseudo-scientific study which had determined that fisherman who laid for an hour in their bunks in the middle of an all night shift performed better than those who forewent it, even if they didn’t manage to actually sleep.

Greg. Mycroft had left him--he wasn’t sure exactly how long ago, but certainly less than twenty-four hours. Greg had no idea that anything was wrong, would make no attempt to contact him. He would give anything for Greg’s arms around him now, Greg’s warm breath at the back of his neck. But Greg was not here, and for that Mycroft was exceedingly grateful. What might have happened, if the evening’s conversation had taken a different turn, if Greg and Mycroft had left the restaurant together? Would they have taken Greg as well? Tortured him in front of Mycroft to make him talk?

It was too terrible even to contemplate. Resisting interrogation was something Mycroft had trained for. Alone, he could and would survive this. With Greg suffering beside him--he would have broken. There was no question.

Worse, Greg would know. His greatest shame. The worst thing he’d ever done. And any respect he had for Mycroft would be gone forever. It was exactly why he’d left Greg in the first place.

Death suddenly seemed more appealing. If he died in this basement, he’d never have to face Gregory Lestrade again. That was the coward’s way, he knew. But it was seductive. Just hold his tongue and let them beat him, maybe to death. Perhaps he deserved it, even, for Shankill. But no. Sherlock couldn’t find him dead. What might it do to his little brother, to arrive too late?

What might it have done to Sherlock if he’d killed Mycroft at Sherrinford? Mycroft had contemplated it, of course he had. He’d known the consequences would be dreadful. A relapse, certainly. Possibly a fatal one. The only reason he’d taken the risk at all was that he knew that if Sherlock killed John, he would commit suicide. That he’d not doubted.

And so he’d chosen, as he had so many times before, the least-worst option: to die by Sherlock’s hand. And he’d tried to ease the way for his brother, just a little bit.

_Idiot. That’s why I’ve always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name._

It was Mycroft who would shame the family name, if Shankill came to light--and it would. He’d always known the truth would out. The demons would rise. And Mycroft would meet them.


	3. Overridden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Our guilt feelings can be tricked away when they are isolated from our moral beliefs … but not when they are allied with them …. The beliefs themselves and the rules which are believed in can only be _overridden_ , a painful process which forces a man to weigh the wrong he is willing to do in order to do right, and which leaves pain behind, and should do so, even after the decision has been made.”--Michael Walzer, Political Action: The Problem of Dirty Hands

Greg sat with his feet on the coffee table, eating reheated risotto and sipping beer while watching the Orient West Ham match. Mycroft would never have approved of pairing beer and risotto, or of feet on the coffee table, but Mycroft wasn’t fucking here, was he? Greg took another swig and wiggled his right big toe, which was starting to work a hole through his black trouser sock. Koroma bounced a header off the goal post, and Greg groaned. His phone buzzed, vibrating the glass coffee table.

Shit. He muted the telly and grabbed it, glancing down at the display.

_Sherlock Holmes_

Fuck. He did not fucking need this right now. There was no way this was about Mycroft--Mycroft would rather die than confide any details about his personal life in Sherlock. Still, even if Sherlock was just bored and wanting a case, five minutes on the phone with Greg and he’d deduce everything. Greg slid his thumb to the right, silencing it.

Immediately, his phone buzzed again.

_Sherlock Holmes_

Wanker. Greg pressed the power button until the phone switched off. Then he threw it onto the sofa beside him and turned the telly up.

 

* * *

 

Greg woke to a blinding headache, one foot off the sofa, surrounded by a moat of empty beer bottles. He hadn’t drunk that much in a single evening since he’d gotten suspended after Sherlock’s death. Sherlock’s _faked_ death. At least he didn’t have to go in today. Mycroft probably would, the workaholic. Greg sighed. What Mycroft did or didn’t do wasn’t his concern anymore.

He sat up slowly, brain pounding against the sides of his skull. This was bad. He padded into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Nausea welled up as he drank, and he forced himself to sip slowly. He opened the fridge, scowling at the takeaway container full of scallops. He made himself toast and tea, then made his way back to the sofa. He munched the toast while fumbling between the cushions for his phone, thumbing it back to life.

One missed message from Sherlock Holmes:

_Mycroft abducted. Come to Vauxhall Cross at once.-SH_

Greg blinked. Hard. He read the message again. Then he dialed Sherlock.

“Graff. How good of you to finally call.”

“What the fuck, Sherlock? ‘Mycroft abducted’? What the hell happened?”

“At 6:43 PM yesterday, Mycroft texted his PA and asked her to send a car to collect him from his date with you--earlier than expected. The driver did not return home after--his absence was noticed by his wife, who phoned in at approximately 9 PM. Anthea attempted to contact Mycroft and found him unreachable. Naturally, she was concerned, and notified Lady Smallwood.

“Lady Smallwood’s team watched the CCTV footage surrounding the restaurant and saw Mycroft being abducted by two masked assailants, who Tasered him and pulled him into one of the MI5 motorpool’s cars. The driver was found dead in a utility closet at the motorpool’s garage.”

“Jesus,” Greg breathed. He should have gone after him. Screw his dignity, he should have chased after Mycroft, and then fought off anyone who tried to harm him. “Why didn’t you beat my door down? Send John to fetch me, one of Lady Smallwood’s minions. Something!”

“John and Rosie are in Cardiff visiting Harry. Lady Smallwood doesn’t know I’ve contacted you. But primarily, I thought it was a better use of my time to try to track down my _kidnapped brother_ than to see why you couldn’t be arsed to answer your phone. Also, I didn’t think you’d be of much value to the investigation. I do have one question, though.”

“Anything.”

“Why did Mycroft leave the restaurant early?”

“We argued.”

“What about?”

“I asked him some details about his work. He was reluctant to share.”

“You’re obfuscating, George. Don’t waste my time.”

Greg huffed. “Fine. I asked if he’d ever ordered anyone tortured.”

Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be naïive. Of course Mycroft’s had people tortured.”

“He refused to confirm or deny it. Things got heated. He paid the bill and left.” What if Mycroft were being tortured, now? No one would dare, surely. He was far too valuable an asset for that. “Has there been a ransom demand?” Greg asked.

“No. No communication of any kind.”

“Any leads on who’s taken him?”

“They played something of a shell game with Mycroft, transferring him between a number of cars in an attempt to evade the CCTV. We found the original Jaguar stolen from MI5’s motorpool, with Mycroft’s phone still inside, and another vehicle with plates registered to an individual with known connections to the Real IRA.”

“Shit.”

“Quite.”

“Do you think they’ve left London?”

“Unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Lady Smallwood has ordered roadblocks and security checkpoints be set up in an attempt to locate any of the vehicles they used. If they’ve any brains at all, they will have noticed, and won’t try to leave the city.”

“Okay. Is the Met involved?”

“Yes, though I doubt they’ll be much use.”

Greg ignored that. “What are you doing now?”

“Looking through real estate records, mostly. Trying to find a building which is either vacant or owned by someone with known or suspected IRA connections in an area where the soil composition matches that found on the floor matts in the dumped vehicle we found. It’s frustratingly slow going.”

“And you’re at Vauxhall cross.”

“Yes. Where I told you to come at once--eleven hours ago.”

“On my way.” He’d have to throw on some clean clothes first. No time for a shave or shower. Hopefully he didn’t smell too strongly of beer.

 

* * *

 

“You aren’t authorized to be here.” Lady Smallwood glared at Greg, then at Sherlock, standing beside him.

“I requested he come.”

“He doesn’t have the clearance.”

“So get it for him. You cleared him to know about Sherrinford.”

“Which took time. I can’t just--”

“He’s Mycroft’s partner.”

Greg’s heart pounded.

“They’re not married.”

“What difference does it make?”

She pursed her lips.

“He stays or I go.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“He’s your brother.”

“There’s not exactly a lot of fraternal affection between us.”

She huffed. “Very well.” She whirled on Greg. “But if you distract my team or meddle in any way, I will have you thrown out.”

“I won’t. Thank you, ma’am.”

She nodded, then turned to Sherlock. “You’re responsible for him.” She turned on her heel and stepped into a conference room which she’d turned into a command center.

Sherlock motioned for Greg to follow him past the room into a computer lab.

“Have we narrowed down that list of properties yet?” Sherlock demanded.

“Working on it, Mr Holmes,” said a young woman with dark coily hair and glasses.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Greg.

“Doubtful. I’ve only brought you because Mycroft would want you to be here.”

Greg wasn’t so sure about that. Sherlock and Lady Smallwood were allowing him to be here because they thought he meant something to Mycroft that he didn’t anymore. And the reason Mycroft had left him was because he didn’t want Greg to know about the darker side of his work. Even knowing Mycroft wouldn’t want him prying, though, he felt compelled.

“Can you think of any specific reason the IRA would target Mycroft?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “He’s a high level British intelligence official.”

“Yes, even I know that much. But I mean, did Mycroft ever go after the IRA?”

“What do you think MI5 does?”

Greg rubbed at his temples. “You know what I mean. Is there any way this could be personal?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mycroft has organized dozens of counterterrorism operations. There are any number of terrorists, including in the IRA, who might have it in for him personally.”

“Only if they know what he does. Isn’t Mycroft’s actual job some kind of closely guarded secret?”

“We’re operating on the assumption that someone leaked that information to them. Lady Smallwood is looking for the mole. I’m looking for Mycroft.”

“But what if that’s not true? Let’s say there were no leaks. What if someone recognized him? Did Mycroft ever work with the IRA undercover?”

“Legwork? Mycroft detests--”

“He must have,” the coily-haired agent interjected. “Sorry. I just. I’ve paid close attention to Mr Holmes’s career path, and I know he was stationed in Belfast during the Troubles.” She clicked and typed at her computer, then pointed at the monitor. “It’s right here. January 1992 through December 1993.”

“What was he doing there?” asked Greg.

She shrugged. “I don’t have the clearance. But ‘working with the IRA undercover’ seems a good guess.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stormed into Lady Smallwood’s war room without so much as a knock, slamming the door behind him and Greg. “What was Mycroft doing in Belfast in 1992 and ‘93?” Sherlock demanded.

Lady Smallwood didn’t bother to look up from her laptop. “Is this relevant to the investigation?”

“It might be.”

“Even if it is,” she glanced at Greg. “It’s not something he’s authorized to hear.”

“He stays or I go, remember?”

“We both know you’re bluffing, and I’m calling it.”

Sherlock’s jaw twitched.

“Was Mycroft working undercover with the IRA?” asked Greg.

Lady Smallwood shot him a dark look.

“He was, wasn’t he?” said Sherlock. “Why didn’t you say something? All this time I’ve been assuming Mycroft was being targeted because of his current position. What if he’s being targeted for something he did in the past?”

“Mycroft has done far more damage to the IRA from London than he ever did in Belfast.”

“So he _was_ working with them.”

“We had a number of agents embedded in both the IRA and the UDA. Mycroft was their handler.”

Sherlock grasped his hair with both hands, eyes widening. “The Royal Ulster Constabulary!”

Hope welled within him. “What?”

“In 2002, the IRA stole a bunch of classified documents from it. There was some compromising information contained therein, including the scandalous revelation that MI5 had foreknowledge of the Shankill Road bombing in 1993.”

He’d watched it on the telly. Emergency services carrying the dead out of the rubble on sheet-covered stretchers.

“An agent called ‘AA’ tipped them off,” Sherlock continued. “Was Mycroft his handler?”

Lady Smallwood’s eyes narrowed. “That information does not leave this room.”

Greg clenched his teeth to keep his jaw from dropping. MI5 had known in advance about a terrorist attack. _Mycroft_ had known about a terrorist attack. And done nothing.

“This has to be connected,” said Sherlock. His voice was clipped, fast. “There is no mole. Mycroft was recognized. They may not know who he is beyond his involvement in the Shankill Road operation and whatever else he did when he was in Belfast--”

“You don’t know that,” said Lady Smallwood. “This could just as easily be about any number of counterterrorism operations Mycroft has run over the years.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Lady Smallwood.

It was the agent from before, laptop under her arm. “I think we may have found the building.” She walked over to the conference table and set her laptop down in front of Lady Smallwood. “The soil composition’s a match. And the building’s owner, Daniel McCaffery, is a known contributor to _Sinn Féin_. But here’s the really interesting thing.” She pointed to an image on the monitor.

Greg and Sherlock glanced over Lady Smallwood’s shoulder. It was a perfectly ordinary car parked in an alleyway next to a house. The agent zoomed in on the license plate.

“That’s the third car in the shell game,” breathed Sherlock.

“Thank you, Walker,” said Lady Smallwood.

Greg’s heartbeat thudded in his ears. Mycroft could be inside that house. “What now?” He hoped it involved a firearms unit, maybe even the military.

“I don’t want to go in with guns blazing,” said Lady Smallwood. “I’ll not risk Mycroft getting killed in a shootout.”

“What will you do instead?”

“Negotiate for Mycroft’s release, of course.”

“I’ll do the negotiating,” said Sherlock.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Lady Smallwood. “You’ll stay right here until our team has Mycroft.” She glanced at Greg, “You too.”

He nodded. His heart was beating out of his chest. This was the most dangerous part.

 

* * *

 

Greg struggled not to pace, watching the walls of monitors showing the CCTV feeds from cameras in the streets surrounding the address Walker had found--a perfectly ordinary family home in Islington. An additional feed showed the view from a helicopter en route.

Sherlock did pace, coat billowing behind him.

Lady Smallwood stood tall on her pumps, hands folded in front of her. Greg envied her detachment.

On the screens, police cars and an ambulance assembled around the streets. The helicopter hovered overhead. Greg dug his fingernails into his palms.

“Put the call through,” said Lady Smallwood.

From a speaker in the center of the table, the phone rang. Greg stared at it, willing someone to pick up.

“Hallo?” said a gruff voice.

“Good afternoon,” said Lady Smallwood. “My name is Elizabeth Smallwood. I’m here to help you find a way out of the situation you’ve probably noticed is beginning to unfold around you.”

“You with the pigs?”

“I speak for them.”

“Tell them they’d better stand down.”

Lady Smallwood began to walk slowly as she was speaking, still with eyes on all the monitors. “Tell me why I should tell them that.”

“We’ve got a hostage. MI5 bloke.”

Sherlock whirled on his heel. Greg closed his eyes.

“Is he unharmed?” asked Lady Smallwood.

“He’ll be alright.”

Alarms sounded in Greg’s mind.

“My colleagues will be happy to hear that.”

“Yeah, well, if they want to see him alive again, we want some concessions.”

“And we will discuss those, but I’ll need proof of life, first.”

“How’re you proposing I send that?”

“Do you have access to a laptop with a webcam?”

The man snorted. “Sure.”

“I’d like to set up a secure video connection.”

Greg chewed his lip as they worked out the particulars. He just wanted to see Mycroft, alive and sound. After a few minutes, one of the monitors switched to what appeared to be the interior of a kitchen. It was rather surreal, seeing three masked men in knitted ski masks sitting around a table occupied by a teapot covered in a quilted cozy.

Lady Smallwood had taken a seat at the conference table in front of her laptop. Her own face was a mask of quiet calm. Sherlock paced back and forth out of view. Greg stood to the side with Walker, Anthea, and several of Lady Smallwood’s staff.

“Can you see me?” asked Lady Smallwood.

The man in the middle grunted an affirmative.

“I would like to see Mr Holmes.”

The man picked up the laptop and turned it away from him, carrying it through a living room and another hallway, opening a door which revealed a flight of stairs.

Greg held his breath as the man walked down, camera shaking with each step. He came to a stop at the bottom of a flight of stairs in what was clearly an unfinished basement. Shelves with cans of food were visible at one edge of the screen.

“Turn ‘round,” said another voice, younger, stronger brogue.

The camera turned, too, and Greg saw him. Mycroft, naked and hooded, huddled in the corner, cradling a grotesquely swollen hand to his chest.

“Smile for the camera,” said the second voice.

Mycroft’s head moved towards the voice, then towards the stairs, clearly unsure which way to turn.

Greg dug his fingernails deep into the meat of his palms.

Sherlock trembled, white with rage.

“Would you remove the hood, please?” asked Lady Smallwood.

“Ryan,” said the gruff voice.

A different man, presumably Ryan, stepped into the screen. He grabbed the fabric above Mycroft’s head and jerked, pulling it off his face. Mycroft flinched and turned his face away from the light in the middle of the room. Ryan bent down and grasped his chin, pointed his face towards the camera. Mycroft blinked, eyes out of focus.

“There, you’ve seen him,” said the first voice. He turned around--Greg despaired as the camera spun away from Mycroft--and marched back up the stairs. “Now let’s talk about what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“Shankill Road, 1993. Ten people died, including our brother Thomas Begley. Wasn’t meant to happen like that. The building was to have been evacuated. Only Adair and his cronies were meant to’ve died. But someone at MI5 ordered agent AA to tamper with the fuse on the bomb.”

Greg stared at Smallwood, aghast. Her face was an impenetrable wall.

“Mr Holmes,” the man continued, “told us the order came from a bloke called Antarctica.”

Sherlock’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“We want ‘Antarctica’s’ real name. And we want for MI5 to publicly admit responsibility for tampering with the bomb, and to turn Antarctica and anyone who acted with him over to the Hague to be tried for their crimes.”

Lady Smallwood took a careful breath. “These are some serious accusations you are making, and heavy concessions you are asking. I can offer you safe passage out of London--”

“Fuck that. We know you’ve got roadblocks set up on the M40. Give us a name.”

She pursed her lips. “Very well. Mr Holmes is Antarctica.”

Greg’s eyes widened.

“Fuck off. That’s impossible.”

“I assure you, it is.”

“He was just a kid at the time of the bombing.”

“And tampering with the device was his idea.”

“Even so, someone else must’ve authorized it. You’re just using him as a scapegoat because we’ve already got him.”

“You’ll not get any other names from me.”

The masked man crossed his arms. “Fine. I just want someone from MI5 to publically take responsibility. You want to see Holmes alive again, you’ll give a press conference in one hour. You admit MI5 is responsible for Shankill. Announce you’ll be doing a full internal investigation and turning over anyone who was involved to the international authorities. The press’ll hold you accountable for that.”

“I need time. To discuss this with my superiors--”

“One hour.”

“Mr Holmes is to be made as comfortable as possible. I want him out of that basement. Get him something to wear. Give him something to eat and drink. Something for his pain. And if he comes to further harm, you get nothing.”

The man grunted. “I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss. You’ll have him as soon as the press conference is over.”

“The press conference is to be outside your home, Mr McCaffery.”

“It’s his home. I’m not him.”

“I don’t believe you, but I also don’t care. You want MI5 to claim responsibility? Do the same. Show them Mr Holmes. Admit that you took him, and that you demanded his confession in exchange for his release.”

“You think you can convince the press you lied to protect one of your own? Once they see the documents we found at the RUC, no one’ll believe that MI5 wasn’t involved.”

“Present the facts--all of them--and let the public draw its own conclusions.”

“Very well. We’ll see you in one hour.”

The screen went dark.

Lady Smallwood slumped forwards in her chair, pressing her temples with her fingertips.

“Jesus,” said Greg.

Everyone stared at him.

“Was that… true?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, scrutinizing Lady Smallwood. “Yes, I think it was. I also think ‘Elizabeth Smallwood’ is the name she didn’t give them.”

“And are we going--I mean, are you really going to do what he asked? Hold a press conference? Take responsibility for Shankill Road? In an hour?”

Lady Smallwood straightened. “Absolutely not.”

 

* * *

 

Mycroft turned his hooded head towards the stairs as footsteps descended down them. Daniel McCaffery again. Mycroft had recognized his voice when he’d come down before with the camera. He’d heard it years ago, in Belfast.

Ryan stood up when McCaffery walked in the room.

“Get him up,” said McCaffery. “And put his clothes back on.”

“What’s happening?” asked Ryan.

“Press conference.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. He found it hard to believe Lady Smallwood would have agreed to that.

Ryan walked over and kicked at Mycroft’s ankles. “You heard him.”

Mycroft struggled to his feet, pushing against the floor with his good hand.

For the second time within the hour, Ryan pulled the hood off Mycroft’s head. Mycroft blinked at the yellow light, taking in the basement, McCaffery standing on the stairs, his clothes in a pile in the far corner.

“Get dressed,” said Ryan. “Got to look posh for the cameras.”

Mycroft walked across the room on stiff legs, picking up his clothes. They were wrinkled and slightly damp. Still, he was relieved to be allowed to put them back on. He struggled into his pants, stepping into one leg, then the other, pulling them up with his good hand. The trousers were more difficult. He leaned his shoulder against the wall and wriggled his legs in one by one.

Ryan watched impassively, smirk showing in the window around his mouth left by the ski mask.

Mycroft didn’t bother with his socks, stepping into his shoes barefoot. He pulled the laces tight as best he could with one hand and tucked them under the tongues of his brogues. Then he began with his shirt. He gingerly slipped his right arm, which throbbed with every heartbeat, through his sleeve. His cufflinks had gone missing. He felt naked without them and his pocket watch, and he struggled to do up the buttons with one hand.

After a minute, Ryan huffed in exasperation. “Let me,” he snapped. He buttoned up Mycroft’s shirt to the neck, then helped him into the waistcoat. “You wear too many bloody clothes.”

Mycroft ignored the slight and tucked in his shirtails. He picked up the tie next. He’d slipped it over his head still knotted, and he put it back on the same way. Ryan slid the knot in place--cinching it just a touch too tight--and folded his collar down.

His jacket, which was hopelessly wrinkled, he put on last.

“You’ll look better once you’ve got your coat on,” said Ryan. “It’s in the closet upstairs. And comb your fucking hair.”

Ryan stomped up the stairs, not looking back. Mycroft followed obediently, wishing he were twenty years younger and in good enough shape to have a hope of attacking Ryan while his back was turned. But he was weary to the bone. Besides, Lady Smallwood must be working on something. Any attempts to escape on his part were likely to do more harm than good.

Ryan led him up the stairs, down a hall, and opened the door to a toilet. His bladder clenched. It had been aching now for hours, worse since Ryan had given him water. He’d refused to pee on the basement floor.

“Freshen up a bit, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded and stepped aside. He needed to piss so badly now his teeth ached.

He undid his trousers, annoying with one hand, and degrading with Ryan watching from the doorway, but manageable. He stood before the toilet and relieved himself, closing his eyes, nearly gasping as his release spattered against the bowl. Bliss.

After, he washed his hand and face before sipping water from his cupped fingers. There was a comb in the cabinet behind the mirror, which he ran through his thinning hair. He looked old. The last few hours had aged him a decade. But he supposed he looked as close as he was going to get to presentable.

“Stop dallying.”

Mycroft sighed, patted his face dry with a towel, and stepped outside.

McCaffery appeared at the other end of the hall. He was bristling with weapons, a rifle over his shoulder, handgun at his hip, a bandolier across his chest. “You ready?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded. He glanced over McCaffery’s shoulder and looked through the windows outside. There was a crowd gathered at the other side of the pavement. He blinked. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Perhaps Smallwood was desperate.

“Now here’s the deal,” said McCaffery. “This Smallwood bitch has called a press conference. She’s going to go out there and admit that MI5 are responsible for Shankill Road. She’s pinned the whole thing on you, said it was your idea. I don’t buy that for a minute, but at this point I don’t give a shit. The important thing is, she’s going to agree to do a full investigation. The press’ll smell blood in the water and they won’t give up until they get more names.”

He pointed at Mycroft. “You say nothing unless you’re asked a direct question. If they do ask, you admit that the bomb was tampered with. Whatever else you do, you don’t contradict Smallwood.”

Mycroft nodded again. In truth, he was struck dumb. The more McCaffery spoke, the more impossible this all seemed. There was no way Smallwood would have agreed to this. Not even to facilitate the rescue of someone at his level.

“Here.”

Ryan touched his shoulder.

Mycroft flinched, and whirled around, nearly losing his balance.

Ryan shoved his coat at him.

Mycroft struggled to get his right arm into it. It was excruciating. Ryan was right. A good coat hid a multitude of sins. Mycroft’s covered the worst of his suit, and the breaks on his trouser legs hid his missing socks. Even his broken hand was mostly covered by the cuff. It was clear they didn’t want him to look like a tortured hostage. Mycroft sighed and did up the buttons one-handed.

Two other masked men, also heavily armed, were waiting in the kitchen. It was incongruous--a group of armed men standing about in front of the counter, which housed an electric kettle, a fruit bowl and a spice rack. Mycroft remembered the build of one of them--he’d helped pull him into the stolen car after they’d Tasered him. The other was a stranger.

“Okay,” said McCaffery. “Show time.” He opened the front door and stepped outside.

Ryan tucked his arm through Mycroft’s good one and tugged him along after.

Mycroft blinked at the sunlight. It was late afternoon. Had he really been gone less than twenty four hours? Or had it been a day and a half? It had seemed an eternity. He stared out at the mix of press and police that surrounded the building. Something was wrong. That was agent Walker wearing a press pass and holding a notebook. One of Smallwood’s best and brightest. He picked out other anomalies: obviously fake credentials, more familiar faces. His shoulders tensed. This ‘press conference’ was a fake. But no, there was Kitty Riley from The Sun. There was real press here, too, if one counted Kitty Riley as ‘real press.’ And the policemen looked real enough, as did the ambulance and fire engine in the back.

McCaffery made his way to the podium set up on the pavement, the rest of his men and Mycroft falling in behind. Lady Smallwood stood to one side, wearing a ballistic vest over her dove gray skirt suit and flanked by two bodyguards.

McCaffery tapped the mic twice. It made a popping sound which echoed over the street. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Press. London’s finest. We four represent the Real IRA. But we’re not the ones with something to say.” He turned to Lady Smallwood. “This lady here has an announcement to make.” He stepped aside, motioning for Lady Smallwood to take his place at the podium.

Smallwood stepped forward slowly. She cleared her throat, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing her earpiece. “Yes,” she began. “Though I would like to preface this announcement by saying that it is made under duress, in exchange--” she gestured to Mycroft, “--for that man’s freedom.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Mycroft saw a man moving forward through the crowd. He looked more closely. Swift gait, military build and haircut, weapon concealed beneath his coat. _No._ After all his years of service. He hadn’t talked, hadn’t betrayed anyone.

Mycroft scanned the crowd desperately for Sherlock. _Please don’t be here, don’t let him see this._ His eyes settled on a familiar shock of silver hair near the back of the crowd, by the ambulance. Greg. _Please no, don’t look, Greg._

There was too much distance between them for Mycroft to meet Greg’s eyes across the crowd, but Mycroft stared at him, all the same. This was not how he would have chosen to die, but Greg was the last person he would have chosen to see. Then Sherlock stepped out from behind the ambulance. Mycroft grimaced, then dropped his gaze to the gunman, who had pulled his weapon from beneath his coat and aimed it at Mycroft’s head. _Look me in the eyes. I dare you._

Several bystanders cried out. Mycroft squared his shoulders. The man steadied the gun with both hands and squeezed the trigger.


	4. Some Hope of Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “A politician with dirty hands needs a soul, and it is best for us all if he has some hope of personal salvation, however that is conceived. It is not the case that when he does bad in order to do good he surrenders himself forever to the demon of politics. He commits a determinate crime, and he must pay a determinate penalty. When he has done so, his hands will be clean again, or as clean as human hands can ever be.”--Michael Walzer, Political Action: The Problem of Dirty Hands

Everything happened in a blur. Mycroft went down. Greg pushed his way through the crowd of reporters. “Police!” he shouted. “Out of the way, I’m a policeman!”

Sherlock was on his heels, and the paramedics followed close behind.

McCaffery lunged for Lady Smallwood, pulling her close, pressing his sidearm to her temple.

A shot rang out from overhead. McCaffery dropped like his legs had been cut out from under him.

The other three terrorists drew their weapons, firing towards the surrounding buildings. The snipers Smallwood had positioned on the rooftops took them out one by one.

Some of the press were dropping to the ground and covering their heads. Others were filming. The Met were trying to create a perimeter around the podium. Greg pushed through it, flashing his badge as he went, and dropped to his knees at Mycroft’s side.

“Mycroft!” He pressed his fingers to Mycroft’s neck, avoiding the dart below Mycroft’s jaw. Mycroft’s pulse beat against his fingers, strong and steady. _Oh, thank God._ “Mycroft!”

The first paramedic, a woman with a wrist-thick ginger braid, nudged him aside.

Greg reluctantly shifted back on his heels and made room for her. She knelt next to Mycroft and took his vitals.

“Ladies and Gentleman,” Lady Smallwood stepped up to the mic. “Please remain calm. The situation is under control. What you are seeing is the aftermath of a planned operation. Please make way for medical personnel. Do not leave the area until the police have secured the scene.”

Two more paramedics rolling a stretcher trolley made their way through the crowd, stopping beside Mycroft. They slid a pair of stretcher bars beneath him, strapping him down. Greg flinched as they tightened the straps.

Sherlock placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “He’ll be fine. It’s the same tranquilizer Eurus used at Sherrinford. He’ll have a bit of a headache. That’s all.”

The paramedics slid a device beneath Mycroft which functioned as a sort of jack, using compressed air to lift the metal stretcher bars to the height of the trolley. Greg watched, fingers clenching and unclenching, as they slid Mycroft onto the trolley and wheeled him back towards the ambulance.

DCI Baynes was giving instructions over the microphone. Greg didn’t hear them. He walked behind the trolley as though in a trance, watching as they transferred him into the ambulance.

“Can I ride along?” he asked. “I’m--” the lie caught in his throat. ‘I’m his partner.”

The ginger paramedic nodded. “If you stay out of the way.”

“‘Course.” Greg climbed into the rig. He secured himself into one of the jump seats at the side of the vehicle. This wasn’t his first ride along, but it was his first time as the… he didn’t know what he was to Mycroft anymore.

The paramedics fitted an oxygen mask over Mycroft’s face. He looked fragile beneath it, skin waxy and drawn. He stirred slightly when they started an IV.

“Mr Holmes?” asked the paramedic. “My name is Christina. I’m here to help you. Please try not to move.”

Mycroft groaned.

“You’ve been tranquilized, Mr Holmes. It’s wearing off now. We’re taking you to the hospital so you can receive further care, but you’re stable. Your right hand is broken and needs setting.”

“Sherlock.”

Christina glanced at Greg.

“His brother.”

“He’s not here right now, but Mr--”

“Greg.”

“Greg is here in the ambulance with you.”

“No,” croaked Mycroft.

Greg’s heart clenched. “Mycroft. Myc, I’m here, can you hear me?”

Mycroft shook his head.

Christina’s brow furrowed. “Mr Holmes?”

“Don’t want. Him.”

She shot a sympathetic glance towards Greg. “Sometimes patients don’t want their partner to see them like this. They’re vulnerable.”

Greg nodded, numb.

_Their partner._

Except Greg wasn’t Mycroft’s partner. Not anymore. He leaned back in the jumpseat and spent the rest of the trip in silence.

 

* * *

 

Greg lingered in the A&E waiting room after Mycroft had been transported to a private room. He didn’t want to go where he was so clearly unwanted, and yet he couldn’t bear to leave without knowing Mycroft was alright. Sherlock had arrived, and gone in to see Mycroft, and still Greg had lingered, even though it was his brother Mycroft had asked for.

He was just making his way towards the exit for the fourth and hopefully the final time when Sherlock reemerged from between the double doors separating the waiting room from the patient rooms.

“Stay,” said Sherlock. He pulled Greg’s arm, trying to lead him back the way he’d come.

Greg shook his head. “He’s made it clear he doesn’t want me here.”

“He does. He’ll deny it. He’ll make it difficult for you. But he’s frightened and in pain and he needs you.”

Greg swallowed. He certainly wanted to believe it. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Mycroft left me. At the restaurant. We didn’t just argue. We broke up. He broke up with me.”

“Obviously. Mycroft left early. You didn’t answer my calls. You showed up at Vauxhall smelling like a pub floor.”

“Then why did you tell Lady Smallwood I was his partner?”

“Because you are. Mycroft regrets breaking up with you. He only did it because he was afraid you’d leave him if he told you the truth about the torture. If he knows you won’t leave, he’ll want you back, but he won’t ask. He’s too proud.”

Greg sighed. “I trust your deductions about crime scenes, Sherlock. But you can’t know how Mycroft feels. You’re guessing.”

“I know my brother.”

“Do you? Do any of us?”

“You’re angry. About Shankill Road.”

“No. I swear I’m not. I’m more… disappointed, I guess. That he did that. Hurt. That he never told me.”

“Is that why you want to go?”

“I don’t.”

“So don’t.”

“He’ll be angry with me.” 

“And do what? Break up with you more?”

When he put it like that…. Greg’s lip quirked. “Fine.”

Sherlock’s expression softened. “Thank you.”

Greg nodded. Then he walked down the hallway, stopping outside Mycroft’s room. The pair of guards stationed outside looked ahead impassively. Greg squared his shoulders and opened the door.

Mycroft lay in a narrow hospital bed, propped up on pillows. His left arm was attached to an IV hanging beside him. His right arm was in a cast, laying atop the sheets. He glanced at Greg as he walked in the room, jaw tensing, but said nothing.

Greg stepped slowly forward, stopping at the foot of the bed. “Hi,” he said. Stupid.

“Hello.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Poorly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Mycroft shifted beneath the covers. “This was my fault.”

“No,” Greg grasped the rail at the foot of the bed. “Don’t say that. Ever.”

Mycroft glanced away, towards the window. “You don’t know the whole story. I never told you.”

“And you don’t need to. You need to rest.”

“You don’t understand. I need--I was in Belfast. In 1993.”

“I know. Lady Smallwood told me.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“Enough to know we need to talk. And we will. But not now. Now you sleep.”

Mycroft’s jaw worked. “Why are you here?”

“Sherlock asked me.”

Mycroft snorted, then coughed, then winced in pain.

Greg winced in sympathy. Probably broken ribs.

“At least you’re honest.”

“Sherlock asked me to help find you, and I came because I couldn’t stay away. Then he asked me to stay, and I stayed because I couldn’t leave. Not with you ….” He gestured to Mycroft’s bed.

“This is pity.”

“This is concern. For your welfare.”

“I don’t want your concern.”

“Then what do you want?”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “I haven’t the right. To ask you.”

“Ask me anyway.”

Mycroft opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“On the contrary. I am very sorry for the many grave mistakes I’ve made.”

Greg rocked back on his heels. “Okay. I guess you do have some things to be sorry for. But that’s the first step, isn’t it? Being sorry?”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“Not the past. But it can make a difference going forwards. If you make amends. Ask forgiveness.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Maybe that’s for those you’ve wronged to decide.”

“You’re among them.” Mycroft lifted his chin.

“And I forgive you.”

“I wasn’t--”

“Don’t spoil it.”

“I wasn’t soliciting it.”

“I know.”

“But… thank you.”

“Was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

“Well, maybe it should be.”

The corner of Mycroft’s lip flickered into a smile. Then he sighed. “You didn’t let me apologize.”

“There’s time enough for that.”

“I… shouldn’t have left you in the restaurant. It was ungentlemanly. And some of the things I said were unkind. You were quite right. I was afraid, and I…. I apologize.”

“Thanks. It means a lot, hearing you say that.” Still, it was glaringly obvious that Mycroft was only apologizing for the manner in which he’d dumped Greg, not for doing it.

“But I don’t regret that the circumstances meant that I left the restaurant alone. If they’d taken you too--” Mycroft swallowed.

“I wish I’d been there. To protect you.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m not sure you could have, and if you--I couldn’t have borne--” his voice broke.

“Hey,” Greg patted Mycroft’s shin. “Didn’t happen. I’m fine.”

Mycroft glanced down at Greg’s hand. He pulled it back. Mycroft’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

“Sorry,” said Greg.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I keep forgetting that I’m not--It won’t happen again.” His own voice was husky. His eyes prickled.

“Greg, I never--I’m so sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“So don’t.”

Mycroft’s face crumpled.

“Now I’m the one who needs to say sorry. I shouldn’t have…. You broke up with me. And that hurts, and it’s hard, but I accept it. I just… I want to take care of you so bad, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to behave now, and….”

“Greg,” Mycroft took a careful breath. “It is again I who should apologize. I just assumed that--now that you know everything I’ve done, I just…. I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me.”

“No! God, no, Mycroft. Yes, of course I’m--it’s only just starting to sink in, what you did, and I’m going to have to think about it a lot, and probably at some point I’ll be angry about it, but it’s not going to make me stop loving you--” he clamped his mouth shut, fighting the urge to cover it with his hands like a child, but it was out there, and Mycroft was looking at him, brows knit and lips slightly parted and so fucking vulnerable it was all Greg could do not to sweep him into his arms.

“Greg, I had no idea that you….” Mycroft licked his lips. “I too, have grown to… care for you very deeply.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“Because I’m a fool.”

“Take it back, then?”

Mycroft tilted his head. “Would you have me back?”

“Yes. In a heartbeat, yes.”

Mycroft reached for Greg with his left hand. Greg stepped forward and enveloped it in his, pressing it to his chest. He bent down and kissed Mycroft’s fingers. “I wish I could kiss your other hand.”

“Simple fractures, all of them. Should heal fine.”

“Oh God, Mycroft, when I saw what they’d done to you….” Greg’s voice cracked.

“I’m fine, Greg. I’ll be fine.”

“No, it’s not fine, it’s not okay. They hurt you.”

“I deserved it.” 

“No--fuck. Never say that.”

“I’m responsible for the deaths of those ten people.”

“Sherlock says Lady Smallwood gave the order.”

“It was my idea.”

The admission bowled him over. He squashed the feeling down. Not now. “Still. No one deserves to be tortured, Mycroft.”

Mycroft met Greg’s gaze, his eyes and voice soft. “Then what do you think I deserve?”

It was such a dangerous question, and he had no idea how to answer it without making things worse between them. “I--I don’t know. I feel like that’s not my place, to decide.”

“Come, now, you’re an officer of the law. You must have some ideas.”

“I think you should tell the truth,” Greg admitted. “And then let the chips fall where they may.”

Mycroft sighed. “As do I. But this isn’t just about me. I shall have to speak to the others who will be revealed by my confession.”

“Lady Smallwood.”

“And others.”

“Okay. But…. Mycroft, whatever happens. I’m not going anywhere. D’you understand?”

“No. I confess it’s entirely beyond me why you would stay….”

Greg was going to protest, but Mycroft interrupted. “But I believe you.”

“That’s good.” Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand in his. “That’s enough.”

“It isn’t. Nothing I do will ever be enough to deserve you.”

The words made his heart clench. “Good thing that it’s not up to you to decide if you deserve me or not.”

Mycroft smiled softly. His eyelids drooped.

“I’m a disgrace,” said Greg.

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows.

“You’re s’posed to be resting. And here I am keeping you up.”

“It’s fine.” Mycroft’s eyelids lowered again.

“It’s not,” said Greg. “You need your sleep.” He released Mycroft’s hand and lowered it to the bed. 

“Don’t leave,” said Mycroft.

“I won’t.” Greg took a seat against the wall, crossing his legs. “I’ll be here when you wake,” he said. “Promise.”

Mycroft nodded and sank back on the pillow, closing his eyes.

Greg ached, watching him. He wished he could lay alongside Mycroft and pull him into his arms.

Slowly, Mycroft’s breathing became shallow, even. His head lolled to one side.

Greg took out his phone and checked his emails, watching Mycroft sleep out of the corner of his eye.

 

* * *

 

“You’re looking better,” said Lady Smallwood.

“Thank you,” said Mycroft. He wore a deep grey Prince of Wales check suit, right cufflink missing so he could fit his cast through the rolled double cuff. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in to see you sooner.”

“You needed to rest.”

“It’s driving me mad, now, rest. I’ve done little else. And I know--”

“We need to talk before you can come back to work.”

“Yes. I suppose I should start by reassuring you that I gave up nothing. I claimed full responsibility for Shankill Road myself. I gave no names, save my own codename, Antarctica.”

“I know. You were very brave. And I’m very grateful.”

He dropped his eyes. “But I don’t think that we can go on keeping the operation a secret. The press will already be--”

“Digging around. I know. I’ve been managing them as best I can. There was no way to keep them from McCaffrey’s house; there was too much police presence for someone not to notice, so I told them that we were holding a press conference with a terrorist organization. Now of course they all want to know how it ended in a shootout. I’ve told them the investigation is ongoing and that we can only release limited information, but that will only satisfy them for so long.”

“It is my belief that we should be as candid as we can.”

“I fear we will have little other recourse. The order was mine. I will take full responsibility, and shield you and Sir Edwin as best as I can.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. It was my idea, I can’t let you--”

“You _will_ let me, Mycroft. You were twenty-three. This shouldn’t be on your head.”

“I knew what I was doing. The three of us decided together, I can’t just--how can I face--”

“Ah.” Lady Smallwood leaned back in her chair, palms down on the desk. “This is about your partner.”

“He thinks I should confess.”

“He’s a policeman. And an idealist. There’s no sense in you losing a completely fine career to satisfy his sense of justice.”

“Except that I--I’ve had time to contemplate. And I’ve concluded there is nothing I value more than his respect. My vocation included.”

She shook her head. “This is madness.”

“I see no other way forward.”

“Let me shield you from prison at least.”

“I’m prepared to face… prison, if it comes to that.”

“You’re absolutely not, and you’re a fool if you think you are. You wouldn’t last a week.”

“I endured torture for you.”

“I know. And that’s why I want to protect you, Mycroft. Let me. For my sake if not yours.”

“I can’t.”

She sighed. “Stubborn. But your being kidnapped and tortured should garner you some sympathy. Likely they’ll think you’ve suffered enough and you won’t do any time.”

Mycroft shrugged. He agreed with her assessment, and he hated himself for his relief. “I shall be tendering my resignation, of course.”

She nodded. “I will have to, as well, and likely Sir Edwin.”

“It’s been an honour. Working with you.”

She smiled. “You as well. I’m so sorry, Mycroft.”

“You did what you thought was best at the time.”

“I did. But not a day goes by that I don’t wonder if…. We got the ceasefire. Would we have got it if I hadn’t let the attack proceed? Does it matter? Was it still wrong, even if we saved lives?”

“I, too, find myself… turning it over in my mind. And I’m forced to conclude that we did wrong. That there must have been a better way we didn’t see.”

“You found your better way. Bond Air.”

“The Flight of the Dead. I wondered if there was a way to achieve the psychological effect of a terrorist attack without casualties. And I thought I had it figured out. Sherlock spoiled it, of course.”

“You weren’t willing to do what I did.”

“I learned from our mistakes.”

“Yes. That will go in your favour too, I think. As for me…. I fear it will go harder for me.”

“I suspect so. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. And I’ll manage. I’m not my husband.”

“You’re stronger than he was.”

She shrugged. “Or just more stubborn.”

“Stronger. I’m proud of you. And relieved. I thought perhaps you might oppose me--”

“Never. No. Thank you, Mycroft, for setting the example. Doing the right thing.”

“Am I doing it because it’s the right thing? Or am I doing it because I want him to think I’m the kind of man who does the right thing?”

“I think they’re the same. Be good for him.” She cocked her head pointedly. “Be good _to_ him.”

He nodded. “I will.”

 

* * *

 

Greg sat nibbling finger sandwiches from a tea tower. Mycroft was sorry for having kept him waiting. It had seemed too forward, inviting Greg to his home, even since they’d come to their new… understanding at the hospital. And so he’d invited Greg to the Diogenes’.

Greg paused when Mycroft entered the Stranger’s Room, room, glancing at him expectantly.

“Apologies,” said Mycroft. “My meeting with the Prime Minister ran late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Greg.

“I’ve tendered my resignation,” said Mycroft. “Effective immediately.”

Greg dropped a cucumber sandwich. “So soon.”

“It seemed best to get started. Lady Smallwood has resigned as well, and will be making her announcement to the press. Sir Edwin has chosen to stay in his position, at least for now, which I think will go badly for him. I thought it best to try to get out in front of this.”

“That isn’t the real reason you’ve resigned.”

Mycroft shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “No. You said I should ‘let the chips fall where they may.”

“You did this for me.”

“I did this because you convinced me it was the right thing.”

Greg smoothed his hands on his napkin and stood up, stepping out from behind the table and over to Mycroft. He clasped Mycroft’s biceps. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Are you indeed?”

“More than I can say, yes.”

“This is far from over,” said Mycroft. “And I cannot predict for sure what the future will hold. I fear you may come to regret throwing your lot in with mine.”

“Never.”

“I may go to prison. Lady Smallwood thinks it unlikely, but it’s still within the realm of possibility.”

“Then I’ll wait for you.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m not sure that would go over well at the Yard. A Detective Inspector carrying on with a convict.”

“Don’t care. I’d still write you. Every day. Save all your letters.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that.” Greg stroked the side of his cheek. “Wish you’d start letting me decide.”

“I’m sorry. I promise I’ll let you decide everything from now on.”

“Stop talking bollocks.” Greg pulled him close. “We both know you’ll stay the same stubborn bastard you’ve always been.”

“Maybe. But I’ll try to be better to you. For you.”

“I know you will.” Greg kissed the side of his neck, arms enfolding him. His ribs ached beneath his suit, but Mycroft didn’t care. It was worth it to be in Greg’s arms again. “When I think of how close I came to losing you….”

“I was always in the capable hands of Lady Smallwood.”

“You were in the hands of a bunch of terrorist animals.”

“For less than twenty-four hours.”

“Don’t downplay what happened, Mycroft. They kidnapped and tortured you. You might have died. And I could have lost you without ever having told you I loved you. That changed things for me. Made it clear I would stay with you through anything.”

Mycroft sighed. “It did cross my mind. That I might die down there, never see you again. And then again when I was at the press conference. I thought perhaps Lady Smallwood intended to assassinate me, and I didn’t--you had stepped out from behind the ambulance, and I knew.... I was afraid you would watch me die. And I didn’t want you to see that, even though I wanted to see you.”

“I’m so sorry. I was worried you might think that. But there was nothing for it. Lady Smallwood thought it was the best way to get you on the ground and out of the way.”

“And she was right. I just…. I love you too, Greg. When you said it at the hospital, before, I was too taken aback and I… didn’t know how to react. You put yourself out there, and I didn’t reciprocate. I’m sorry.”

“I told you because it was true and you needed to know. Not because I wanted to hear it back.”

“I know. That’s part of why I love you. And I do.”

“And I love you. And I will be here. Always. Whatever happens. Whatever you’ve done, Mycroft, whatever you do, I will always, always love you.”

“And I will strive to be more worthy of that love. And to show my own love for you.”

Greg placed his hands on either side of Mycroft’s face and kissed him.

Mycroft kissed him back, deeply, fiercely. He didn’t believe in miracles, and yet, he’d been blessed with one anyway, because Greg was here, Greg had forgiven him, Greg was holding him and Mycroft was holding Greg like he’d never let go.

After a few moments the kiss softened, Greg pulled back, sucking at Mycroft’s lower lip. He stroked his face, down the length of his arms, and taking both of Mycroft’s wrists into his hands, he sank to one knee.

Mycroft looked down at him, in his good court suit, buttons undone.

“When I said always, Mycroft, I meant it. Always. Forever. If you’ll have me.” 

Tears prickled in Mycroft’s eyes. “Yes,” he whispered. And then, more loudly, “of course I will, yes.”

“I don’t have a ring,” said Greg. “There was no time. But I knew I had to ask. I’ll get you a ring later.”

“I lost mine,” said Mycroft. “When Ryan stepped on my hand, it tore into my finger, and I pulled it off to keep it from cutting off circulation. I left it on the basement floor.”

Greg winced. “I’m sorry, Mycroft. We’ll get it back.”

“I don’t care. It was a bauble, nothing more. Yours will mean so much more to me.”

Greg stood slowly. “And yours will mean everything to me. I know I’ve been married before--I’m sorry, I shouldn’t speak of her now, but….”

“I understand.” Mycroft wrapped his good arm around Greg, his cast hanging limp at his side. “And I forgive you.”

Greg laughed. “We’re even.”

“Not by a long shot. I fear I will always be in your debt.”

“No.” Greg folded his arms around him and drew himself up on tiptoe to kiss Mycroft’s forehead. “There is no debt between us. No accounting. No ledger. Just… love.”

Mycroft nuzzled Greg’s neck. “Just love.”

**Author's Note:**

> First thanks go to n_a, for bidding on me in Fandom Trumps Hate, and commissioning this fic. I’d also like to thank my two wonderful betas, Iwantthatcoat and HiddenLacuna. This fic is much better thanks to their input. And I’d also like to thank my dear friend tiltedsyllogism; our discussions about the ethics surrounding torture and the gray morality of Mycroft heavily influenced this fic.
> 
> I’d also like to thank all the amazing readers who were brave enough to read this work as a WIP and left encouraging comments. You kept me motivated. Thanks also to all my new readers who read this work after it was finished.
> 
> I wanted to link [Political Action: The Problem of Dirty Hands](http://fs2.american.edu/dfagel/www/Philosophers/Walzer/PoliticaAction_TheProblemofDirtyHabnds.pdf). This is the essay that I’ve been quoting at the start of each chapter. It shaped both my characterization of Mycroft (I’m positive he’s read it) and the plot of this story. I highly recommend it.
> 
> Finally, I wanted to share some of the research I did in case anyone is interested in reading further about the Shankill Road Bombing.
> 
> [ Article about how MI5 allegedly knew about and did not prevent the Shankill Road bombing](https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/shankill-road-bombing-mi5-ignored-ira-tip-off-that-could-have-prevent-belfast-atrocity-investigation-a6833541.html)  
>    
> [ Article about Agent AA](https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/shankill-road-bomb-ira-double-agent-deliberately-set-device-to-explode-prematurely-a6833581.html)
> 
> [ Article about the Shankill Road Bombing’s intended target, Johnny Adair](http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/northern_ireland/821698.stm)
> 
> [Fair article about the context of the terrorist attack, namely the anti-catholic violence in Belfast](https://fair.org/extra/in-belfast-bombing-a-tragedy-without-context/)
> 
> [ Irish Times Article on Collusion between MI5 and the IRA](https://www.irishtimes.com/opinion/eamonn-mccann-state-role-in-killings-by-ira-changes-everything-1.2512647)
> 
> [ New Statesman article on Collusion between MI5 and the IRA](https://www.newstatesman.com/politics/devolution/2016/01/truth-and-reconciliation-reality-northern-ireland-will-have-neither)
> 
> [Great Blog Story with details about the attacks](https://ansionnachfionn.com/2016/01/27/the-shankill-bombing-and-britains-proxy-war-in-belfast/)
> 
> [ Explanation of the Five Techniques](https://rightsinfo.org/explainer-five-techniques-will-never-work/)
> 
> [Essay on whether one should ever negotiate with terrorists](https://www.bradford.ac.uk/social-sciences/peace-conflict-and-development/issue-21/to-negotiate-or-not-negotiate.pdf)


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